Malware Makes the Man
by PenHolmes
Summary: Sherlock wished he were capable of deleting his past, but it was like malware on his hard drive, always tripping him up and slowing him down with its burdens. He would never admit it, but the months before he met his Blogger were very, very hard: prequel, canon, speculation, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donavon, Molly Hooper, Stamford
1. The Curious Case of the Missing Hand

_Things you can expect explored: Sherlock's familial relationships, homelessness, drug experiments (hence the T rating), and more._

**_Edit:_**_ There's a very strong filter that is not allowing me to fake e-mail addresses within the story, so I had to edit the e-mail._

_**Edit 2:** I changed some statements to better match the appropriate intensity intended, and also to make a few character motivations and clashes more clear. I also made Sherlock's statements a little more BBC Sherlockian. Also, I aimed at more "show not tell".  
_

_**Edit 3:** Attempting British spellings. God help me. Actually, no. British people help me. Thanks. Also, very minor grammar.  
_

* * *

3:39 PM

SEND TO: **"GThatcher"**

CC:

Mrs. Thatcher,

The project has been moved forward and the new due date is Wednesday. I need the preliminaries on my desk tomorrow morning. Work late if you have to. I need this to be perfect.

-Mr. Holder

[_E-mail Sent_]

Sherlock let out a long, uninterested sigh as he hit the send button. "Why do executive types have to be so predictably dull? Don't name your password after your children. It makes things way too easy", he muttered to himself. His mobile buzzed, and he eagerly looked to see who was contacting him. _'Not whom I'm expecting. Mycroft. Oh God, what could he want this time?'_ Much more reluctant now, he checked on what his 'dear' elder brother had to say to him.

**New Message:**  
Where's my car?

MH

**Reply:**  
Using it.

SH

**New Message:**  
You didn't ask.

MH

**Reply:**  
Knew you weren't going to use it. Almost done.

SH

-  
"Do you want to assist this case or not?" Lestrade said in annoyance as he looked over Sherlock's shoulder. The amateur detective put his mobile back into his jacket pocket, visibly annoyed at the breach of privacy. "I've already solved the case Lestrade. Just waiting for everything to fall into place."

This came as a surprise to all who overheard, which was something Sherlock secretly relished. "What? What is the final piece? Out with it Sherlock; you're making me look rather foolish." The phone interrupted again, and ignoring Lestrade's plea, Sherlock plucked it out of his pocket and read the text nonchalantly.

**New Message:**  
I want you out of my house.

MH

**Reply:**  
I am out of your house. I'm with an investigation.

SH

-  
**New Message:**  
_Cowardly Dan_ is attempting to send a video. Download now?

[_Yes_]

_Downloading..._

**New Message:**  
I am tired of supporting you despite your complete disrespect towards me and general indolence. You never do any chores. I'm constantly cleaning your messes.

MH

**Reply:**  
You mean my experiments. Can't we talk later? I'm busy trying to form a career as we speak, ironically.

SH

**Alert:**  
Download complete. View now?

[_Yes_]

The video was the final nail in the coffin. "This, Lestrade, is exactly what I was waiting for!" Sherlock displayed the video for all to see, smirking triumphantly. On the small screen, the police officers of Scotland Yard viewed a shaky video of a pretty young lady showing off an amateur magic trick.

In response, the group was mystified, bemusement written on their faces. Obviously, they could not figure out how this had anything to do with murder. "Don't you get it?" Sherlock finally said, tiring of the silence.

Sergeant Donavon shook her head. "I think I do. You've wasted all of our time", she observed caustically. "Come on all; let's make the arrest while he's still doing his rounds. Remember, he's one of us. That makes him potentially armed and dangerous." The crowd began to disperse, some of them still bewildered and others newly disappointed.

"Yes, Donavon, perhaps you're right. It seems I've wasted your time. You see, I mistook you for someone competent enough to see crucial evidence when it is waved right in front of your face!"

Donavon looked angry, but vigilantly continued in attempts to ignore this outsider. She nearly made it outside of the door when he physically blocked her, causing her anger to finally reach its boiling point. "Get out of my way, you freak! You're impeding justice!"

"No, I'm stopping you from _embarrassing_ the entirety of Scotland Yard! You're arresting an innocent man, one of your own! The real killer is slipping out from under our noses as we speak!"

"Just because D.I. Lestrade thinks you might do us some good doesn't make you in charge of me." Donavon pushed the amateur detective out of her way with an angry huff and hurried to catch up with the rest of the force. The only one left in Sherlock's audience was Lestrade, who was utterly mortified. "I really thought you had a point with this-"

"I do! If you would just listen, I'll explain." Sherlock fussed with his mobile once more. Lestrade's face softened and he sat himself down at a chair. "I'm listening. You have two minutes to prove Thatcher innocent."

"Less, if I want to catch you the real killers."

**New Message:**  
Being a "consulting detective" is not a real job. You are wasting your talents and taking advantage of my kindness.

MH

Sherlock angrily exited out of his brother's message and then sent the video to the Scotland Yard computer database. He then turned the monitor to face Lestrade and played the video once more, pausing and zooming in on a face in the background. It was none other than Officer Thatcher, the man who was about to be arrested on murder charges. He was dressed like a homeless man asking for spare change. "This video was recorded in Hyde Park eight minutes before the murder. Thatcher is a man of loose morals, yes, but he's bound to the rules of time and space like the rest of us."

The lights came on. "This means he couldn't have been- we've made a grave mistake." Lestrade called the cars and then focused his attention back on Sherlock- but the amateur detective was in the middle of making a hasty exit. "Sherlock? Sherlock! What do you mean, 'catch me the real killers'? Sherlock!"

A smirk grew on his face as he heard Lestrade's puzzlement. Sherlock climbed into his brother's car and Lestrade hopped in as well, an aggravated look on his face. "If you know something, don't keep me in the dark. Thatcher and I were close." Sherlock wordlessly began to drive towards his destination, but Lestrade was quite insistent, so he showed him a picture of an unusual star shaped ring from his mobile. "This ring is the key to the mystery. It turns Lola from an alibi to a co-conspirator."

"Wait, what? How so? I don't get it, Sherlock. Do you mind explaining this to me instead of trying to be all secretive and dramatic?" After a few moments of silence, Lestrade sighed, agitated but giving up for the moment. He tried to figure it out on his own. "How could a ring turn an innocent girl into a co-conspirator? She was in her room that night with Brent Thatcher; the mother can attest to that. She heard them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He just could not understand how Lestrade was the Detective Inspector. _'He has his moments of clarity, but all in all he is just as dull as the lot of humanity. There will never be a shortage of clientèle lining up at my door.'_

Sherlock stopped on the side of a small quiet street where children were playing. He knew this was it. The killer was nearby, and he would never be able to resist the chance. He pulled out a different mobile and began to text.

**Send New Message:**  
I'm going to be late again tonight. Don't wait up.

**New Message:**  
Okay mum, thanks.

"The trap has been set. All that's left is for him to dispose of the hand, and then we will have the final damning evidence to arrest him." Sherlock watched the Thatcher house intently. Lestrade looked confused. "The hand? Are you saying the missing hand isn't out in the Thames somewhere, that it's in Thatcher's house? How does this prove Officer Thatcher's innocence?"

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "It doesn't. All it proves is that the killer has been to that house and likely lives there. That's why I'm waiting for it to be disposed by the killer, who will therefore implicate himself with his actions. I've just given him the seemingly perfect window of opportunity. He's all alone for the evening."

"So, you're waiting for the son to bring out the trash tonight, which may or may not contain the hand. Do you even have any proof the hand isn't already disposed of, or that it's not in the Thames?"

"No, I don't."

**Reply:**  
I can't believe you would say such a hurtful thing. I'm doing my best to get established, and I'm not trying to take advantage of you.

SH

**Incoming Call:**  
_Mycroft_

[_Send to Voicemail_]

**New Message:**  
Pick up the phone, Sherlock. I'm hurting you? That's convenient. It's always about you. That's your problem. You're selfish. That's why mother won't take you in.

MH

**Reply:**  
How dare you bring mother into this.

SH

**Incoming Call:**  
_Mycroft_

[_Send to Voicemail_]

**New Message:**  
You need to hear this. Pick up the phone Sherlock!

MH

**Incoming Call:**  
_Mycroft_

[_Send to Voicemail_]

**Reply:**  
I get it. I won't come back.

SH

**Incoming Call:**  
_Mycroft_

[_Send to Voicemail_]

**New Message:**  
I never said I was kicking you out. I said you're no longer welcome in my house. You need to start being responsible for yourself.

MH

**Reply:**  
Effectively, you're kicking me out. I never wanted to be your burden. You insisted I wasn't one.

SH

**New Message:**  
I lied.

MH

**Reply:**  
No shit!

SH

**New Message:**  
Obviously find someplace else before you leave here.

MH

**Reply:**  
I refuse to stay anywhere I am not welcome. I am not coming back. You will never see me again.

SH

**New Message:**  
Stop being so dramatic!

MH

**Reply:**  
You have got your wish. I'm gone, the imperfect and troubled little brother, away from your life, out of your hair. Goodbye.

SH

Sherlock stared at his phone defiantly as he typed, tears brimming in his eyes. He threw it and it clattered violently onto the dashboard of Mycroft's car. The mobile continued to buzz, crawling across the dash, but Sherlock had reached his limit for his brother's antics.

_'I'm not one of his little pawns! I'm not being selfish, nor am I lazy. How could he say I'm using him? I can't prove my innocence in such a subjective matter. I can't prove I'm worthy of my family's kindness. Is that something normal families do? Demand proof in areas like that?'_

He felt hurt.

_'Synonyms for [_**_Hurt_**_]: Aching, agonised, battered, bruised, busted up, contused, damaged, distressed, harmed, indignant, marred, offended, pained, sad, sore, stricken, suffering, wounded'._

Sherlock's mind had looked up the synonyms of 'hurt' while scraping for a more appropriate word, a more clinical word. But he was 'hurt'. This argument with his brother had reopened so many old wounds.

_'Mycroft always knew how to affect me.'_

He was supposed to be concentrating on his trap, but these 'feelings' were getting in the way. _'Feelings. Hah. Mycroft pretends to be so emotionless, but everything he does is based on how he feels. He rationalises based on it.'_

"He's the lazy one", Sherlock mused to himself aloud, his voice unsteady. "If it were up to him he would just sit in his damn chair all day doing nothing!"

A throat cleared and Sherlock stopped short, turning to look at Lestrade, also clearing his throat and looking back at the house. Neither man broke the awkward silence. Lestrade didn't know Sherlock Holmes very well; he had only just met him in person a handful of times (previous, it was all communication via text message). He could tell that the man liked his solitude, and he respected that. Whatever was going on, it was personal matters, and it had no bearing on what was unfolding before them.

Any moment now, Brent, the son was going to dispose of his trophy, anyone's only hope for real evidence. This boy thought he was so smart because he was in the academy and his father was a veteran police officer. He thought that his father's scandalous habit of pretending to be homeless for additional revenue would keep him silent as to his alibi, and that he could point the crime at his father and get off scotch free.

Sherlock was painfully aware he was operating based on a hunch, and this was a long shot. He hadn't confirmed one-hundred percent where the hand was, but he was still certain it had been kept with the killer, who would now be too spooked to keep it. The boy's closet was filled with pictures of hands! It had to be with him. How could Lestrade have missed something so obvious? Daylight turned into evening, and the accursed waiting was beginning to drive them mad. The killer hadn't much more time. He had to dispose of it soon. Garbage pickup was in the morning and the trash hadn't been taken care of just yet. He was home alone; he would just throw out the hand and be free of all damning evidence!

Suddenly, there was movement. The girlfriend was taking out the trash. Sherlock seemed pleased. "Sending out your accomplice instead?" Lestrade looked out as well. "You think he noticed us?" "No." They waited until she pulled out the bin for pickup and went back inside. Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to stay and then put on gloves and stepped out of the vehicle, grabbing the bag and picking at it right in the street.

The son of Officer Jeremy Thatcher soon came out holding a bat and screaming obscenities at the amateur detective, who disregarded him, completely devoted to his task. Lestrade stepped out and came between the two, holding up his badge. "This is official police business!" Lola came out once more, screaming. "Brent, what do you think you're doing?! Put that bat down! Put it down!"

Sherlock found what he was looking for. "Hah! Here we are." Everyone froze as he pulled up a wad of newsprint and began to unravel it. A finger appeared, polish on the nails. He stopped once the great reveal was over with, an evil smile aimed at the couple now white with fear.

The game was over.

* * *

_I'm participating in NaNoWriMo,so expect chapters fairly quickly._

**Review! Yes, please correct my grammar. Yes, please say hello and introduce yourself! :) The only thing I ask is** **_no spoilers, please._**


	2. Familial Confrontations

_Things get pretty heated in this chapter, so let's get right to it. Remember to leave me a review, and thanks!_

_**Edit: **Fixed some minor grammatical errors, changed a style that does not look good on Opera Mini (which does not support Italics), fixed some ambiguous statements._

_**Edit 2:** Changed some dialogue that was bothering me. Made it more intense and more specific. Cleaned up a few things and livened up the language a bit._

_**Edit 3:** Attempting British English. You know, it really doesn't help that officially, a lot of American spellings (especially: "-ize") are considered correct -and even the foremost official spelling- in the Oxford Dictionary and therefore British spell-checkers. At the same time unofficially they aren't spelled that way and are almost unseen in anything that isn't scientific or psychological. Thanks guys across the pond. Love you. Also, noticing that there's things I have grown up spelling in British English as opposed to American English. What the hey?  
_

* * *

Later that evening Sherlock stepped out of the police station and started to walk towards Mycroft's car, but it was no longer there. He ran up to the now empty parking space and knelt down, checking the pavement: a short brown hair, the faint smell of a ridiculously overpriced brand of cologne, and a cigarette only half finished, still burning. He picked up the butt and looked at it carefully. _'This was our favourite brand.'_ The parking space was mostly dry, even though it had started spitting out about thirty minutes prior. There was no mistaking it; Mycroft had come for the car himself, and very recently.

Anger boiled up inside of the amateur detective as he stood back up, but he tried his best to remain calm. "Of course he would do this", he murmured to himself as he darted his eyes this way and that. Just as he suspected, the car pulled up behind him and his brother got out. "You already know I prefer talking face to face. Why do you seem so surprised?"

"I thought you too habitual. Don't you have 'important business' to attend to in the morning?" Sherlock spat insidiously.

"But I do care about you", Mycroft said impersonally. "You forgot to factor that in."

"I thought you quit smoking." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, shifting the topic.

"I slipped." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

The following silence was absolutely dreadful. The two geniuses stared at each other, neither backing down. The rain got heavier and Mycroft opened his umbrella to shield himself, but Sherlock did nothing, allowing the rain to do what it may.

"Let's talk in the car", Mycroft finally said, opening the door and motioning for his younger brother to step in. Sherlock sniffed. "I'll pass. You smell wretched."

"You're not honestly _that_ mad with me for breaking our non-smoking pact, are you? Do grow up, Sherlock. Do you really expect me to believe you haven't fallen off the wagon at all?"

Sherlock lifted his sleeve, revealing a patch. "You don't like to suffer. Is real life too hard for you? Or do you just not want to get your hands dirty?"

Mycroft merely snorted in disapproval, but it was obvious to his little brother that he'd been injured. "And you do. You've always enjoyed making yourself suffer. Staying awake for days on end, depriving yourself of nourishment, surrounding yourself with dead people, making yourself purposely unappealing to others; God forbid you have any meaningful relationships!"

"Oh yes, just let me settle down, grow fat and complacent like you; that would be just peachy!"

"Yes, maybe it would be! You should really consider my job offer and stop playing at this 'consulting detective' nonsense! I won't be here to help you financially forever, and my patience is stretching rather thin."

Sherlock fumed.

Mycroft continued his chiding, "I also can't help but think if you became intimate once in a while it would actually do you some good".

Sherlock glared as he stepped closer to his brother, body stiff and hands balling into fists. "Do you really think you have my best interests at heart? Because I'm inclined to believe otherwise."

"Of course I do! Like it or not, you are my baby brother, and-"

"Spare me. I'm not going to be placated."

"Placated? Oh dear Lord!"

"I'm never going to be like you, or father for that matter!"

"But your hobby-"

"I solve crimes, Mycroft. I am a brilliant detective! It's my calling! It may be little more than a hobby now, but one day it will support me with or _without_ your 'help'!"

"You are so talented, Sherlock. You could be a composer, a philosopher, or a scientist, yet you choose to lower yourself-"

"You say you want what's best for me, yet you don't care one bit what makes me happy! I'm sorry if my chosen career is not 'high class' enough for you!"

"Sherlock, you're being so dramatic!"

"No, not at all. Here's dramatic, you and this whole family can rot!" Sherlock glared up at his brother, their faces nearly touching. His whole body shook with agitation as he reached into the speechless Mycroft's jacket, pulling out his box of smokes and turning on his heels for illustrative effect before spitefully stomping off like an impetuous child.

Mycroft's brows furrowed and his eyes widened in speechless horror. He gulped delicately before clearing his throat, closing his umbrella and re-entering the car.

Sherlock didn't look back. _'That was not cool and collected. It was sloppy, emotional.'_

The hurt he pushed aside to finish his work had returned to him, and with the personal appearance of his brother, it came with a vengeance. He wanted to shut himself in his room and play his violin until his arms ached, but he no longer had a room. He needed a place to stay.

_'I can't stay at the dorms- for reasons irrelevant to my situation (or perhaps they are?)- not even as a guest, not that I have any friends to speak of there, just some colleagues who think my "tricks rather novel".'_

He adjusted his jacket to maximise warmth and protection, primarily to protect his bare neck, as he walked aimlessly for several blocks, looking around for a fellow smoker who was also unfortunately caught in this cool summer London rain. Finally, he saw a middle aged man hiding under the modest shelter of a building's entrance and asked for a light, and the man provided.

Sherlock took a rebellious drawl and his entire being sighed in ecstasy, warmed from the inside out. The fellow who was smoking beside him chuckled softly. "I hear you there". The amateur detective glanced away. _'Very much so not in the mood for stupid people at the moment.'_

"What's the trouble?" This man was obviously not good at reading body language. Sherlock glared at him and took another drag. "Nothing."

_'Smoker 25+ years, recently released from the hospital, bus driver, 2 cats, 1 dog, heavy drinker, is learning Chinese, scratch that, is planning a short vacation to China, nothing criminal, conclusion: boring.'_

The man still seemed concerned. "I can tell something is troubling you. I've been a bus driver for 12 years, seen all sorts of things."

"Oh, it's just I've been trying to quit smoking", Sherlock provided.

"Ah, well that explains it. Keep at it my friend. Don't give up. We all fall off the wagon sometimes." The man smiled warmly and gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder. Sherlock shrugged away, his eyes narrowing.

_'"Do grow up, Sherlock. Do you really expect me to believe you haven't fallen off the wagon at all?"' _His brother's words reflected in his mind, and he became lost in contemplation. _'_ "_I'm hurting you? That's convenient… I am tired of supporting you… You never do any chores. I'm constantly cleaning your messes."_

_Shut up, brain. I need to focus. What am I to do? I must find shelter from the rain, but where?_

_I have enough money for a coffee. I think there's someplace that's still open nearby. It's 11pm. They're only open for one more hour. It's not a worthwhile investment.'_

Sherlock mindlessly flicked the butt of his cigarette, consumed by thought, his head burrowing into his chest._  
_

_'__I'm tired. There's not a lot of cigarettes left in the carton. How many days was it again since I ate or slept? Three days without sleeping? Maybe four? Was it three days without eating? I think I had a doughnut two days ago.__'_

Mycroft's words crept into his head once more, slithering through his brain. _'"It's always about you, Sherlock. That's your problem. You're selfish. That's why mother won't take you in."'_

His mother chimed in; _'"How can you be so horrible to your best friend? It makes me wonder what you would do to me if I made you angry. It scares me what you're capable of."'_

High beams and a loud blaring horn brought reality back, and instinctually Sherlock leapt out of the way of the oncoming truck. His body rebelled, the world swaying out of focus momentarily, his stiff legs nearly giving out from under him. _'When did I start walking again?' _As his vision and strength returned, he looked around, trying to regain his bearings.

The rain had become quite formidable, and he was drenched. He walked four blocks without even realising it. This happened to him sometimes, one of many little quirks he'd noticed about himself over the years. He would think so hard and for so long that he'd lose track of time and place, and then when he finally came back, he would be somewhere else, sometime else.

He was close to his university, which was a place that had warm and dry rooms with internet open to students, a perfect location to think about what he was going to do and where he was going to go. Yes, it had cameras, yes, it was an obvious place to go, but at this rate he didn't much care. The rain was only getting worse and due to his exhaustion the cold was cutting through him.

He saw a glow to his right and turned to face it. The subway, it was warm and dry- and right there. He raced down the steps and collapsed near the ticket machines, dripping wet. The winds, sudden drop in temperature, and cold rain made him wish he had brought a heavier jacket, or at least his scarf. His undernourished body complained, shivering from the cold wet, becoming lethargic, so he curled up in a corner and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the contacts list, attempting to ignore his body's increasingly annoying requests.

Besides his brother and professional contacts, he had no one to call. Usually, it felt concise, but at that instant, it felt lonely.

He recognized the profoundness of his sacrifices, his choices, his attempts to transcend humanity and to carve out a unique place for himself. As he ruffled his wet hair, he pondered the depths of it all, depression settling in. _'No matter how well I can shape my mind, I will always be tethered by the limitations of my body. How dull this life is.' _

The emotions of hurt and betrayal washed over him as he subconsciously reached for another cigarette and absentmindedly chewed on the filter, fatigued both mentally and physically. Every time he closed his eyes, he knew he was not in a familiar place, and it bothered him. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he made it to the classroom, regardless of how tired he felt. Sighing heavily, he headed out again.

_'I won't let my work be for nothing. I will survive this.'_


	3. Experimental Insufflation

**_Greetings,_**

**_For continuing to read up until this point, I thank you._**

**_I know where I'm going in general with the story; it's going to end when Sherlock meets John. I rather like Watson, so it's a bit of a bummer not to have him in the story. If there's any way to include him before they meet, I might just do it._**

**_In this prequel, I'm having Sherlock be lost just like John, and many other people right now. The economy has been hard world wide, especially for students, people just coming into their own, and that's what inspired me to write this. I want to show Sherlock struggling without the support of a best friend like John. He needs someone like John, for stability, for someone to talk to, and even initially, for financial reasons. Yes, so that's the basis behind the story._**

**_Anyway, let's get started with chapter 3. Thanks for reading!_**

**_Edit: _**_I took out the scarf. It was a goof. I specified it is only an autumn chill, not actually autumn. It's summer._

_**Edit 2:** Trying for British spellings. Minor grammar alterations. The use of "skip" instead of "dumpster" is correct, right? God that sounds weird.  
_

* * *

Stopping in the subway seemed like a very stupid idea once Sherlock re-exposed himself to the London elements. The chill felt worse- _'ridiculous'_, he knew. The rain picked up where it left off, chilling him to the bone and soaking the unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He usually loved London nights, especially the cold and foggy ones, but tonight he was more than willing to enjoy it from indoors with a giant mug of coffee in hand.

Stepping into the gates of his mind palace, a place made of glass, holograms, and computer screens (that floats in a sky straight out of the Matrix), he brought out the map of London and zoomed in. There were several short cuts, some of which had a probability of danger with the elements, the law, and a local gang of thugs. "The dangers", he decided, "would merely keep me on my toes- and awake." He picked up the pace, checking the time on his mobile before replacing it in his pocket.

12:33am

_'It is still prime time for criminal activity for another hour and a half, but factoring in the recent onset of cold autumn-like rain, there is a good chance most individuals are indoors. The only people outside in weather like this have to be, or perhaps are compelled to do so for penance. Move like the shadows, stay alert, always watching and listening, be quick.' _

He couldn't help hoping to see a crime taking place, or perhaps to find a mystery to solve before the police could. It picked up his spirits a bit, allowing him to continue despite his body's obnoxious protests. Momentarily, he connected to a self from long ago, one that ate up every unsolved mystery he could find. Something about the big black void of the unknown drew him to it. His mind embarrassingly reminded him that as a child, he loved stories of alien abduction and ghosts for precisely that reason, which made him frown inwardly at how pathetically naive he used to be. Mycroft used to chide him for it, too.

_'There is no solid proof for the existence of UFOs or ghosts. Why do you think that is, Sherlock?' _Mind Mycroft said to him, coolly. Young Mind Sherlock snapped back at him, fiery and filled with spirit. _'Because, only idiots are trying to find the evidence. I will bring up real evidence and prove they exist!'_ _'No,'_ Mind Mycroft said, the audio faint but the lips very readable, _'attempting to prove the existence of something is just fake science; it's circular reasoning. You will only see what you want to see and nothing to the contrary. Only idiots are searching for the evidence because real scientists know better.' _From that moment, he knew Mycroft was right, and could no longer enjoy the paranormal.

_'Focus'_, the current Sherlock insisted. _'Focus on the short cuts. Focus on the potential dangers.'_ His mind was always racing, sometimes to the point of rambling, and it irritated him to no end when his thoughts were merely a useless distraction. He recalled often finding himself thinking on six to ten trains of thought simultaneously, and though it was useful for mystery solving (like having the speeds of a multi-core processor), it was terrible when without direction. He'd simultaneously ponder the meaning of life, wonder why anyone in their right mind would put hot sauce on ice cream, process the results of a recent experiment, mentally pick apart a passer-by, think how exhausting his brother was, and be formulating his schedule for the next week.

He could follow his trains of thought, but he only had one body, and often times that body would be very conflicted as to what to do with itself. When he was around people, every little thing they did around him distracted him, invaded his brain. It was like those humans neighbouring his space were brain hijackers, destroying all semblance of sanity with their bland opinions, emotions, and histories. God forbid he was talking to one of these opened books while being so scattered. People hardly understood what he was talking about, especially when he was younger.

He recalled his private tutor's various attempts to help him, including having to bring in a speech therapist and a psychiatrist. _'There it goes again, that uncontrollable string of thought. I can reflect later; right now I've got to mind my surroundings.'_ He continued to fight against the tide of unusual, bizarre, and frankly unhelpful thoughts, but he realised he was too tired to keep himself from drifting unless something really drew him back into focus.

Sherlock therefore decided he had to do it, and he stopped in the middle of the alley, hiding from the rain behind a skip. Searching for cameras, yet finding none, he patted himself down to be certain there was nothing on him either. He hated doing this in public, potentially allowing his brother (or anyone else) to see him, but he felt he had no other choice. Pulling a prescription bottle out of his inner pocket with trembling hands (which did so in a mix between anticipation and cold), his brain absent-mindedly read part of the very familiar label while he was opening the bottle up.

**'Sherlock Holmes**

**Take one tablet orally once per day...**

**Do not misuse-'**

He always got a kick out of the label. After feeling the effects of taking methylphenidate orally, young Sherlock had little interest in taking the drug (and it was a fight every day with his family to force him to ingest it), but as soon as he learned he could change its effects by taking via insufflation, he tried it. That sense of euphoria was so focusing that it helped him to get through even the most boring of lectures. Ever since, he'd pretend to be medicating himself regularly, saving his medication for whenever he'd needed to supply himself with an artificial sense of interest.

He picked out a small plastic bag and crushed the pill, and then he snorted it off his hand. He felt reinvigorated, his mind once again focused. Everything fell into place, and even London's rain appeared a little less dreary. He felt like he could shove away his brother's recent hurtful words, and the weight from his shoulders lifted. He still felt pretty tired, but at least he could enjoy some mental clarity on the way to his destination. He stood up, ready to go, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was someone behind him. _'Had they seen?'_ Misuse of his prescription was against the law, and if he'd been caught- he didn't want to think of the consequences of that.

He began to take off like a shot, but a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks and turned him around 360°. "Sherlock? That is you! Hey, since when were you a druggie? What's with that face? I won't tell anyone. I am too. Did I scare you? Did I really sneak up on the Great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock was so flabbergasted that he allowed his colleague to ramble, but only for so long before stopping him. "Cowardly Dan, I hadn't expected to see you in these parts."

"Ah, well I'm expected at a party tonight. I'm a little late, but it always lasts until morning anyway. Actually, I'm even more surprised to see YOU here, I'd bet. And snorting cocaine at that rate. I mean, you seemed like a pretty straight guy."

Sherlock thought to correct Dan's errors, but then decided against it. "So, you're headed out for a party tonight?" He guided the subject away from his illegal activities.

"Yeah, I am. Gosh, you look like Hell, Sherlock. Hiding behind a dumpster in the rain like-"

"Thank you, Dan." Sherlock bit out sarcastically, holding his tongue about how obvious his statement was (for his own sake).

"No, I mean, sorry. What I meant was, you look like you could use a cheery atmosphere. You must be soaked to the bone. Come with me! Unless you're busy, of course. I mean, of course you are. Why else would you be out in the middle of London? Still working on that murder case?"

Cowardly Dan talked quickly and in that damn near incomprehensible French and Texan inflection, so it took a moment for Sherlock to process his statement. The indoors sounded good. A cheery atmosphere sounded appealing. Surrounding himself with the likes of Cowardly Dan, however, did not. Lord knows who would throw a party that a homeless man like Dan was invited to. He only could be sure it was indoors because Dan had insinuated it. But in all honesty, was the party a better option than an empty classroom? He spent a moment thinking through all of the positives and negatives of each decision. "I suppose I could use a cheery atmosphere. I'll go."

The look on Dan's face was priceless. His usually incessant flapping mouth gaped, and then he shook his head to clear it. "Okay, alright! You're way cooler than I gave you credit, Sherlock. I mean, I always figured you were pretty cool, what with that big ass brain of yours, but I never-"

"Yes yes, let's get to the party. Do you have a light?"

"Of course. Though I think your cigarette is a little wet. And chewed on. Want another one?" Cowardly Dan looked concerned for a moment, but the emotion fled as soon as it had arrived. "Yes, please." Sherlock was handed another cigarette and the two lit up, despite Mother Nature's attempts. They made way to the party, which was in a nearly abandoned apartment building. It was a wonder the place wasn't condemned. It was so old that Sherlock had to duck to avoid the ceiling light, and with every step's creak, he half expected to come crashing through the floor. The peeling paint was so faded it was hard to tell which apartment number was which, but luckily Dan appeared to know where he was going already. Once they headed on the second floor, the party could be heard from above. Dan opened the door on the right hand side, entering the apartment first, with Sherlock close behind.

Sherlock scrutinised his surroundings. The apartment was a stark contrast to his expectations. It had high ceilings (thankfully), an aesthetically appealing layout, and fresh, tastefully applied paint. There were original paintings and high quality reprints displayed prominently in flattering frames. The furniture stunk of old money, classic, dignified, and timeless. Cowardly Dan took on a new, appealingly mysterious light in the face of these surroundings. His behaviour changed as well, his movements more commanding and fluid. "Hey y'all! I brought a friend." Sherlock's eyebrows rose. He liked to be surprised.

Dan introduced Sherlock one by one to the party guests. There were many people of the same blood as Dan, yet definitely born in England. One of which was obviously the party thrower, and therefore Dan was from a wealthy noble family. It seemed though, that perhaps Dan's parent was a black sheep (hence moving away and Dan having both the air of old money and no money). He never bothered to remember any of their names, but his mind stored them anyway. The group was in the middle of enjoying some recreational drug use; it was nothing low class of course, cocaine. At first, they seemed marginally uncomfortable about the stranger, but when Sherlock seemed not to care, they invited him to have some as well.

If Sherlock had declined, he knew he would be labeled an outsider with potential for blackmailing or backstabbing them. Joining in their illegal activity was the only real way to truly be considered trustworthy (not that Sherlock particularly cared; he simply observed). However, he had an insatiable curiosity as to what cocaine was like. He also felt terribly rebellious against his kin, knowing that it would get under his brother's skin if he ever found out, which eventually, he surely would.

Cowardly Dan patted Sherlock on the shoulder, laughing. "Ironically, I caught him doing some on my way here." The group seemed impressed, relaxing a bit.

"Yes, well that was a little while ago. Surely you're coming off your high now, right? Enjoy the party with us, our treat!" Ellen, AKA the one with the jagged old scar behind her ear, insisted. Sherlock shrugged, giving into his internal pressures, consenting. "Yes, it is. Thanks." He snorted the cocaine with a piece of cut straw like an old pro, paying special mind to any differences in effect and feeling it had.

The group around him visibly relaxed, reassured.

"Would you like a cuppa?" Josh, the host proffered, looking Sherlock up and down. "You're soaking wet. Let me take your jacket." Sherlock smiled politely and took his mobile and wallet out of his jacket, placing them into his trouser pockets. He handed his jacket to the host; only upon releasing it had he realized how heavy with rain it had become.

Thus far, the feelings of cocaine were a minor improvement. For one thing, he had much more energy than before. "Coffee, two sugars, thanks." He felt a stronger euphoria than with methylphenidate. He felt more focused, more calm. None of the normally annoying distractions even fazed him.

It was a wonderful feeling.

* * *

_PS: _**_Obviously_**_ I'm from the USA and have never been to London, but for canon's sake I am doing my best to 'fake it till I make it'. If you notice any Americanisms, especially in grammar or sayings (or over eager and blunt speech patterns -though I'd consider that almost a boon in writing for Sherlock, frank and blunt as he is-), let me know. I am, however, already aware of the American tendency to put the original "z" into words like "organise", whereas in British English the "z" was dropped in favor of unity. Speaking of "favor", I'm also aware of "favour", etc. I'm finding it very bizarre to "correct" these things. Not certain whether or not I will, because I know I will slip constantly if I attempt to.  
_

_PPS: Yes I'm going for it. Wish me luck.  
_


	4. Imbibing, Raising the Ante

_**Greetings once more!  
**_

_**In response to Morgan Pen: **Cowardly Dan is not a canon character, but I basically treat him like an early version of Holmes' 'homeless network'. I didn't originally intend to bring him back from Ch. 1, however, I decided to use him again while I was writing chapter 2. (Honestly, it could have been any one of Holmes' non-canon colleagues -as there aren't any canon characters I could use for that role- who ran into him, but this keeps it more streamlined.)_

_**Edit:** I've made some minor edits (including one that specifies that it is currently summer, and that the storm FEELS like autumn, but isn't) over the past few chapters. For those of you watching for updates, thank you for returning. For those of you who are new, welcome, and please review! I also had a last minute change of heart as to the sequence of events, so therefore Molly's introduction was pushed forward, but it is still pretty soon. It's a little hard to build upon canon with speculation, and I thank you for your support. This is a smidge of "what if", also. This chapter is going to be quite promising as well, so let's get on with it already!_

_**Edit:** Again, attempting to write in the Queen's English. Also, added a bit here and there. Small details mostly. Things I'd neglected to mention previously.  
_

* * *

The clink of glasses could be heard from the kitchen, and Sherlock pictured in his mind what was happening. They were small glasses, and one of them was a liquor bottle._ 'Shots. Predictable.'_ Just like clockwork, the host brought out a bottle of liquor and enough shot glasses to include Cowardly Dan and his plus one.

The group met at the round dining room table and Dan pulled up a chair for Sherlock, patting it and calling for him as if he were a dog. Sherlock huffed softly, reluctant to lift himself from his comfortably reclined position on the sofa. Josh, the host, smiled warmly. "Care for a gentleman's game, Sherlock?" He shrugged in response, disinterested. "I think I'll pass on this one."

"So be it, then."

Cowardly Dan and several others whined and implored, but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at them. Dan then suddenly changed tactic, laughing to himself. "It's for the best anyway; Sherlock would swindle us out of our money with his crazy mind powers." _'Oh, here it goes'_ Sherlock thought sarcastically to himself, but part of him was fondly listening, weak against flattery. "Mind powers?" Dana, the wife of the host, asked, amusement in her eyes. "Is he some sort of mad genius or something?"

This was the cue Dan was looking for, and he began to describe his peculiar peer. "Yes, he's a crime solving genius. He has this weird ability to look at anyone and just know things, like he picks up the smallest details." Everyone at the party turned to look from Dan to Sherlock, and they bombarded him with their questioning looks. It was a little annoying, but not nearly as annoying as it would be without the happy hue cocaine gave. _'Another thing to note, besides exuberance, is its analgesic properties'_, he tacked mentally.

"No way, really?" Josh scoffed, incredulous. Ellen was far more optimistic, believing every word. "So, he knows us just by looking at us? Sherlock, can you show us these mind powers?" Sherlock snorted at 'mind powers', something Ellen apparently was taking quite literally. He couldn't help but want to show off now. "I don't know anything much. I can only really tell for certain a few minor things about each of you."

Josh snorted in sardonic laughter, but he was very curious. "If you're so certain of your abilities, why don't we make it a bet?"

"Oh I don't know about that", Sherlock feigned insecurity. "Oh come on, Sherlock, you should!" Dan insisted. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sighed. "All right, I'm listening."

"For every correct guess about one of our hobbies, careers, or personal lives, the one you guess correctly gives you five quid. For every person you guess wrongly, you have to give them five quid. You in?" Dan threw up his hands. "No way am I playing that; Sherlock already knows me so it's not fair. But even if he didn't- well, y'all want to lose all your money? Hey, be my guest." Sherlock continued his act, pretending to be unsure about his prospects and the rest of the group ate up the wager.

"Well?" Josh goaded. Sherlock sat up and shifted uncomfortably, pausing for a few moments. "You know what? I'm feeling lucky today, so I'll give it a try." Cowardly Dan bit back a snicker, nearly giving away his cover.

Sherlock stood up, his heart pounding in excitement as he sat to join the group. All was silent as he picked out the easiest of the bunch and then stared with his intense gaze.

"Dana, you are an oil painter and art collector, specialising in the Romantic period but also having a soft spot for Modern art, two rather diverging tastes, you've recently come to appreciate Modern, likely due to your husband's influences. You're not a good cook yet have very fine dining taste; you've probably been cooked for by a professional for a good portion of your life. Your fashions betray your long standing romantic love for the Victorian Era, and it's obvious to me that you tend to dress your husband." He turned his attention to the host.

"If Josh had it his way, he would be in jeans and a T-shirt right now, as despite his own eloquence and poetic nature he is a misanthrope with nihilist sympathies-" Josh interrupted, red in the face. "How could you possibly know all of that?! Especially my being a nihilist, I don't go around broadcasting-" Sherlock smirked coyly, "aren't most Modern style artists misanthropic nihilists?" Josh frowned, shaking his head. "How could you possibly know I'm an artist?" Dana clapped her hands, her mind completely blown away. "How much does that mean I owe you? It was all correct, but I feel I lost count." Josh scoffed, inserting his hand in the conversation between the two as he stood from his seat. "Very funny, Dan. This little trick isn't going to earn you or your friend a cent."

"I didn't tell him ANYTHING Josh! He's always like this. The first time I met him, he laid out my whole life in front of me. It was so bizarre like right out of a Twilight episode. He's a freak! A genuine freak. Besides, I don't even know what 'misanthrope' or 'nihilist' mean." Cowardly Dan pouted and crossed his arms, roughly landing them on the table in protest.

Sherlock inwardly cringed at the word 'freak', but pretended it hadn't bothered him. Besides, the rest of the conversation was very entertaining. "I assure you this is not trickery. I am merely observing the Modern style art strewn about this home, signed by none other than a J.M.M., and your wife's beautiful, yet unusual, watch on the end table also has those same initials etched on, only it also says 'to Dana, with love', so I should hope J.M.M. is you. The Romantic period art is original, or very good copies, indicating a strong love for collecting Romantic period art, a hobby that has lasted a long enough period to gain quite an impressive collection; your tastes don't account for this lovely collection so therefore your wife's must. Your state of dress and body language suggest you feel uncomfortable in a waistcoat and tie yet your wife seems comfortable, and you both match ever so well, also your wife's hands have distinctive oil paint stains, faint writing callus on her right finger, but also a distinct coarseness, obvious indication- she is also an artist! And by the way, right handed. As are you."

Sherlock paused merely to get his breath, then continued.

"This food was catered from a very expensive restaurant down town, I can see the name of it pencilled in a female's handwriting near the phone, so it seems that Dana had been in charge of food for this get together, and there's a neglected kitchen with countless takeaway menus posted on the fridge, so I think it only logical to assume she can't- or won't cook. Why would she not cook? She's from a rich family. She doesn't have to, and likely never had to. Am I wrong?"

The room was silent; all were gawking. Sherlock looked from one person to the next, a superior air about him. He once more addressed Josh.

"If you cared to pay attention, to observe instead of traipsing through life wilfully oblivious, you may not think me so mysterious. The total for Dana came to fifty-five quid, and for Josh- thus far thirty quid." Josh only got redder, but he settled back down into his seat, giving in. Within fifteen minutes of this test of Sherlock's skills, the amateur detective's money issues were temporarily solved.

Once everyone had a turn, Josh stopped the game. "All right, all right, that's enough of that nonsense. We're all too sober right now, so I submit we should play the original game I had in mind, and Sherlock, you have to play." The younger Holmes snorted at the idea of being forced into ANYTHING, but he decided he'd play along. He was in a generous mood, especially once he and everyone else got a refresher of cocaine pregame.

"We're playing the betting version of 'Tiger's Coming'. Everyone takes a seat at the table with their shot glass. I'm going to fill everyone's glasses with vodka and when I do, put a quid in the pot. When I say "quick! Tiger's coming!" everyone dives under the table, comes back up, takes their shot, then the process repeats. The game continues until people stop coming up from under the table. Last person standing wins the pot."

Sherlock eyed each of his opponents, gauging his chances. He was not an experienced drinker, but he had a naturally high tolerance, and therefore stood a decent chance to win this. Besides, he was feeling utterly charged with energy, invincible. Everyone got out their change as they were being filled up, anxious to start the game. Sherlock was sure none of the women were going to stand much of a chance. _'The biggest threat'_, he decided, _'is Cowardly Dan. He's a total alcoholic'. _Next, he examined the alcohol. This wasn't just any vodka. It was of a significantly higher proof. His heart beat against his chest as he read the warning label, his head buzzing. _'"Danger. Not to be consumed by itself." Can't back out now. Don't want to. This is certainly not boring.'_

First round, everyone came back up. Second, third, and fourth were the same. By the end of those rounds, everyone was feeling giddy. Sherlock noted his exceedingly euphoric condition, and also that he felt so good he rather didn't care _why_ for once. Cowardly Dan smiled at him, and he genuinely smiled back, prompting Dan to laugh and joke, "I've never seen you so happy before. I didn't think it possible! Come to think of it though, I've never seen you drink and do coke, either."

"I've never drank and done coke, so I'm not surprised." They both snickered like little boys who were getting away with something. "Really?" "Never."

"Wow, seriously? Coke and alcohol are like- coke and alcohol!" Sherlock understood Dan's rather stupid joke, and for some reason he thought it was actually kind of funny. Not clever, but still funny. Dan elbowed him lightly and laughed at the connection, which prompted the laughter of the entire group. The positivity in the room was infectious.

Fifth round, Ellen bumped her head on the bottom of the table, knocking over a few glasses, but luckily Josh saved the vodka. She looked at Sherlock and tapped her hand on the table at him. "Coke helps even a lightweight like me go on drinking all night long because the two interact, making a third-" Dana whined. "Ellen, don't get started with your chemistry speak, we're high!" Sherlock pouted in thought, narrowing his eyes. "Creating a third chemical? Interesting."

He felt like he might have heard this from somewhere. Drug effects really only mattered to him if they involved crime somehow. Ellen got in front of Dana, planting both hands on the centre of the table, not so deftly avoiding the pot. "Yes! And this third chemical is called cocaethylene, which has a similar chemical make-up to-" Dana sneaked her hands around Ellen and began to tickle her, prompting an all out tickle match between the two young women. Sherlock gave the two an epic eye roll and sigh combination, but mostly for show, as it was not nearly as grating on his nerves as it usually would be.

While everyone was distracted, Josh initiated a sixth round, and Ellen didn't come back up. She was a real light weight despite the coke it seemed. Seventh round, Dana did not come up, and joined Ellen on the floor in a fit of giggles.

Eighth round and it was Josh, Dan, Scott (the very quiet guy who was far sighted), and Sherlock. When Sherlock came back up, the world abruptly spun around him and he gripped the table tightly to hold on. This sudden onset of effect should have been unsettling, but Sherlock merely found it amusing, probably due to the lingering coke in his system, but also perhaps due to the third chemical produced in his body. Josh shot Sherlock a mean smirk and the mad genius raised his brow in response, straightening himself out.

Ninth round, it was Dan, Josh, Scott, and Sherlock, who only made it by clawing up his chair. "The climb feels positively mountainous," Sherlock exclaimed to himself, and everyone laughed, including him. Dan helped him to sit properly, half mocking him. "Sherlock, you're not going to make it next time, are you?"

"Offcourse I will", Sherlock slurred nonchalantly as he lifted his glass and took his next shot, inwardly noting the practically incomprehensible quality of his poor pronunciation, uncaring. Everything around him was starting to lose any semblance of meaning. Words and categories simply disappeared into non-existence. It was peculiarly refreshing. Sherlock's head hung lethargically on his right shoulder and he watched the as the ceiling spun for an indeterminable amount of time. People spoke around him, but he had no idea what they were saying, and he didn't bother to pay attention. Then, they were speaking about him, and his ears perked up. One of the men said "... so out of it!" and the others laughed cheerily. Following, something about "should we count him out?" which prompted the young Holmes to jerk out of his lounging position, nearly smacking his head into the table like he was a mannequin controlled by a five-year-old puppeteer.

"No-er, I'm- still game." Every word hung at the edge of his lazy tongue and he had to enunciate slowly in order for them not to jumble into an incoherent mess. Upon slightly renewed connection with reality, he recognized that the rest of the players were also starting to look pretty drunk, well, except for Dan, who seemed fine. Sherlock didn't mind losing to Dan. Once Josh was sure everyone was ready, he made the call. "Tiger's coming!"

Sherlock roughly slid off of his chair, landing awkwardly, yet painlessly, on his shoulder. The floor felt welcoming, cooling, soothing. He instinctively curled up before realizing he was supposed to be getting up. The shifting table appeared too far away to reach, but he tried for it, rotating until he was on his back while gripping the chair leg for some semblance of control over his own body. Laughing could be heard from the distance, and he couldn't distinguish whether the laughs were at him or something else. Dan squatted beside Sherlock, smiling kindly. "Do you think you can get up, or do you forfeit?" A gargled groan escaped in response, but eventually the intended words made their way out. "No. I'm- I can do it", he spoke breathlessly, trying to garner the wherewithal to prop himself up.

Josh's disembodied voice said "Scott is out! What about Sherlock? He out too?" Dan offered the downed man a hand up, and he took it, using a combination of that and the grounding stability of the chair to lift himself to a feeble standing position. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and suddenly, a small man was holding him up. "Ah!- _Comme tu es grand! Jesus!_ Sherlock? You okay?" A few giggles could be heard from the darkness and then another set of hands slid around to support him. _"Why is he holding me?"_ A cold hand held his chin up and he opened his eyes, his warped and blackening vision revealing Josh's consternated face. "You fell on him! Obviously." "I fell on him?" Sherlock pondered in a nearly inaudible whisper, bewildered.

The world blackened and Sherlock felt the voices around him growing distant. He welcomed the soothing dreamless state of unconsciousness. His last thought felt detached from his mind, almost as though imposed by an unfamiliar entity.

_'Cocaine. Better than Ritalin.'_

* * *

_Shots on an empty stomach, terribly naughty!_

_On a related note, I looked up interactions of insufflated Ritalin and alcohol, and I couldn't find any studies on it. But when I looked up cocaine and alcohol, I came across some interesting reads. Cocaine mixed with alcohol creates a third chemical in your body called cocaethylene, basically increasing the duration of euphoria, causing more of a lack of appetite, and dramatically increasing your chances for a heart attack due to heart palpitations. Also saw a common misconception: uppers and downers negate each other. No they don't. (Look up 'speed-balling' if you'd like a good example of uppers and downers having interactions.)_


	5. Rueful Man

_I redid this chapter 3 times, the third being due to accidental loss. So, here it is._

_**Edit:** Queen's English. Crossing fingers. Minor add-ons. A few more embellishments.  
_

* * *

Sherlock could sense his lifeless body being tossed roughly onto the sofa. His ears picked up voices, but his brain couldn't discern what they were saying. The blackness laid over him like a protective blanket, separating him from the emotions that plagued him: loneliness, frustration, betrayal.

_'I've never been this drunk before'_, he idly remarked. Sherlock tried to elaborate on this thought, and then noticed most of his mind was on the other side of the blackness as well, which would normally disturb him, except he didn't, and couldn't care. None of it mattered.

This was a much more boring existence than regular sleep. An indistinguishable amount of time passed before a noise in the distance disturbed oblivion, muted as though he were blanketed under six feet of ash. Curiously, Sherlock focused all of his attention on digging himself out, fighting the heaviness. _'... Hello...' _was all that could be distinguished.

_'That voice sounds like-'_

Cold, wet, and there was a horrible roaring right near his ear. Was he dying? The heaviness restrained his body and he felt claustrophobic, as though he were drowning. Oblivion strangled and asphyxiated his mind until he had no fight left.

Moments after, oblivion was mortally struck by a piercing noise and it released its hold.

Sherlock clawed his way to the surface world, the ringtone from his mobile phone his guide, and opened his bleary eyes, fighting the hideously blinding light that shone against him. He felt stiff, as though he had become a component of the brick wall and concrete ground he was sitting against. The young Holmes wiggled the confounded mobile out of his tight trouser pocket and pressed "talk", "speaker" and then landed it roughly on his lap, unable to see clearly enough to check the caller ID.

"... H-hello?" It was a familiar voice, feminine and shy. An incomprehensible groan croaked out instead of his intended response. "Sherlock, is that you? Are you okay?"

"Who is this?" He grimaced at how atrocious his voice sounded.

"It's Molly, you know, from Bart's'." _'Right, Molly, the socially inept pathologist.'_

"Why are you calling?" he managed to croak out. The voice on the other line made a panicked squeak. "I'm sorry to bother you. It's just, Mike, he's mad because you haven't shown and I think he's going to- 'disturb' your experiment from Monday." Sherlock let out a deep sigh upon hearing the name of the man who regrettably shared lab space with him.

"What time is it?"

"It's 11:30. I was getting worried; you're usually so punctual. Are you unwell?" He certainly _felt_ unwell. In these circumstances, it seemed advantageous to play that card. "Actually, I am", he admitted in a piteous voice. His act came much easier than he would have liked, his throat threatening to close on him as he swallowed. _'I need water.'_

"You're sick? Actually sick?" _'She sounds shocked'_, he mused as he eyed his surroundings. _'What happened last night?'_ The last thing he could recall was shamefully overestimating his ability to hold strong liquor. He lost control of himself. He did not remember putting on his coat and leaving, nor choosing to sleep in an unfamiliar alleyway for that matter, no matter how much he racked his brain. It left him feeling unsettled.

"Sherlock?"

"Huh? Ah. Sorry. Yes, really unwell", he whined only half insincerely. The other line was quiet for a moment. "Okay. I'll make sure he doesn't touch it." Sherlock sighed in relief. "Thank you, Molly." He cracked his neck and rolled onto all fours, the world rolling in the opposite direction and the mobile dropping onto the concrete. _'I'm still drunk! This is absurd!'_

"It's almost lunch time; do you want me to bring you something?" Her question came as a bit of a surprise to Sherlock. He expected the awkward co-worker to defend his work against that twit Stamford, but he'd obviously underestimated her propensity toward generosity. It was a windfall he could not refuse.

"Could you pick me up?" He grabbed the mobile and the wall, forcing his shaking legs to hold him up. "Ah- sure, of course! Where are you?" That was a good question. The world spun round as he strained to make out some sort of landmark. "Sherlock?" "One moment", he growled, trying to make any sense out of his location at all. He finally gave up and cheated with his GPS. She promised she'd make it there within forty-five minutes.

Spurred by his distressed body, Sherlock made it to a private toilet within a nearby fast food restaurant, his ungainly trot casting due suspicion upon him. He hoped this would not get him an ASBO. Lestrade would never let him hear the end of it.

Sherlock heaved into the toilet, chiding himself mentally in aggravation. _'Drunk in public! How low you sink, Sherlock!'_ He gulped, staring at his shadow within the dim white bowl. _'How uncharacteristically dim-witted! What did you expect, bets involving alcohol! You don't even drink! You hadn't eaten or slept in days!'_ The inner voice in his head did a great impression of Mycroft.

Finally he was released from his stomach's urges and he used the toilet in its proper manner before heading for the sink and turning on the water. He gargled and washed his face, then combed his hair with his long shaking fingers and subsequently leaned against the door lethargically, groaning into the stillness and taking a moment to let the world right itself once more.

Sherlock reached into his jacket for his handkerchief, but was flabbergasted to instead pull out a plastic bag. _'Cocaine!'_ He hastily guarded it in his bosom, scanning the room with suspicion. _'Mycroft can't find out about this!' _Once it passed scrutiny, he placed the bag on the sink and eyed it, unable to fathom why it was there. After the initial shock wore off, he stood there with a puzzled, agitated look. "How did it end up in my jacket?!" he inquired with a harsh whisper. He couldn't remember anything past being chucked onto a sofa. It was as if his hard drive simply did not store data past a certain point the night previous. He shuddered unconsciously.

A knock at the door caused Sherlock's heart to skip a beat, and he jumped (causing the world to spin again), hiding the cocaine in his jacket instinctively. "Occupied!" he said as clear and soberly as he could. A voice answered, slightly muffled by the door. "Are you all right?"

As he realized the full extent of his recklessness, the consulting detective's heart sunk into his stomach.

_'I'm too drunk to walk straight, I'm in public and I have copious enough cocaine on my person to __be charged with intent to distribute- forget the ASBO! If Lestrade were to find out about this-_'

He caught himself mid panic and scoffed, calming his mind. He could get out of this mess.

_'Drop it in the toilet? Wasteful. If they suspect me they'll check the toilet anyway.'_

The voice repeated. "Are you okay sir?"

_'An older man'_, he figured. Quickly, his mind formulated a cover-up. "I think I've got the flu."

"Do you need an ambulance?" The man sounded concerned. Drunks did not usually operate this time of day so his story was believable.

"No, I called a friend to come pick me up. She'll be here any minute."

Molly arrived within the forty-five minutes she had promised to find her peer slumped against the side of the building they were to meet outside of, holding his head between his knees and bargaining with his upset stomach. She parked and walked over to him. The two exchanged awkward glances before Sherlock forced himself to his feet and Molly guided him to the car.

He could tell by her twitchy body language and scrunched up face she could smell his drunkenness and likely wanted to ask 'why are you here?' and 'what happened?' among other stupid questions. He could feel his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. She opened her mouth once they were buckled in. "Do you want me to take you home?" Realisation dawned on him that he had no 'home' to speak of. He couldn't go back to Mycroft. His older brother would find out everything, and that could be career ending, not that he had much of a career to speak of.

"No, take me to Bart's." Her frown appeared more pronounced and she opened her mouth, about to disapprove, but Sherlock interrupted. "I'm salvaging what's left of the day." Molly closed her mouth, still concerned but no longer choosing to voice it. "Okay, if that's what you want." He firmly stated "yes, please", before curling up and closing his eyes, facing away from her to prevent any further communication on the ride over.

Documenting the results of Monday's experiment should have been cleansing, but Sherlock's body was protesting too violently, his fingers trembling, threatening to devastate his delicate research. Between that and being elbow to elbow with a grumpy Mike Stamford, his headache blew into a full grown migraine within the hour.

When he could no longer concentrate on conducting the experiment, Sherlock decided to take a restful mid afternoon break, having some soup from the cafeteria. His stomach felt too agitated for anything else, but his body required the nourishment. He then decided on an extended bathroom break in the single bathroom at the morgue. It was small, dimly lit, and spotless, three things his migraine ridden head appreciated.

The young man cupped his hand under the running water in the sink and took a sip, watching himself with tired eyes. He looked terrible. There was no way he could survive until his lab was deserted for the night, not unless perhaps he did a line of the cocaine hidden away in his jacket.

It seemed a logical enough solution. Cocaine was an effective tool. _'Certainly more effective than snorting methylphenidate.'_ Once again he checked his surrounding area for cameras. Satisfied he was safe, he did another line. It irritated his nose so he dripped water into his nostrils and held his head back, embracing the slow drip sensation.

The effects were nearly immediate. His body's complaints could no longer reach his superior brain. He returned to his experiment, with a renewed sense of vigour and excitement and spent the next hour talking to no one in particular about the potential his research had for changing the very way forensics worked. He didn't notice when Mike left home for the day. Molly reluctantly left after being assured he was fine.

As he came down from his high, his body grew heavy, and he was certain this was the last half hour he could be awake before his body started to steal what sleep it desperately needed to function. Sherlock lit a cigarette and took out a heavy tome from the bookshelf and laid on the operating table, using his jacket as a pillow. He finished smoking and read four pages before a real restful sleep overcame him.

* * *

_Next chapter: we'll be exploring the past! See you then!_


	6. The Recondite Mystery

_The following dream was originally supposed to be a part of the previous chapter. Overall, I'm glad I lost the original, because this is a far superior product._

_**By the way- ASBO as Wikipedia puts it:** "An **Anti-Social Behaviour Order** or **ASBO** is a civil order made against a person who has been shown, on the balance of evidence, to have engaged in anti-social behaviour. The orders, introduced in the United Kingdom by Prime Minister Tony Blair in 1998, were designed to correct minor incidents that would not ordinarily warrant criminal prosecution. The orders restrict behaviour in some way, by prohibiting a return to a certain area or shop, or by restricting public behaviour such as swearing or drinking alcohol."_

_Short chapter this time!  
_

_**Edit:** Attempts at British English. God help me. Embellishments and minor grammar edits. (Inevitable every re-read.)  
_

* * *

"He's dead", she spat out.

Sherlock and his elder brother Mycroft knew already, but the way their mother said it made it all too real. The brothers sat at the kitchen table opposite and simply observed. Sherlock shoved his knees into his Burberry sweater and laced his fingers behind his trembling lip. Mycroft subtly deflated, his face folding towards the table as he exhaled. Their mother was as still as if she were becoming one of the stone statues she collected, staring out at the unusually warm and bright March day.

Young Sherlock excused himself with a whisper and left the room, trying to grasp the horrible reality laid out before him. He travelled along the glowing red hallway with long old windows, and as he walked it grew longer and daylight was consumed by darkness. Shadows danced beside young Sherlock, their shapes deceiving his eyes, forming into black bouquets, harbingers of the eternal.

At the end lie a coffin splayed with white flowers, partially draped with a British flag.

From the shadows the cold figure of Mycroft was born to Sherlock's right, stroking his long supple dark curls with long fingers. The peculiarity of it struck the youngest Holmes; he tried so hard not to need coddling like other boys his age. The coffin, he realized, was open. Inside was a black satin pillow and a yellow calendula.

"Where's the body, Mycroft?"

"I do not know, Sherlock." Beneath a veneer of tired sadness, Mycroft seemed agitated. Sherlock's body revolted and his mind began firing.

"You know what happened to father, don't you?"

"Even if I had, I would not be at liberty to tell you."

"At liberty to tell me?! I must know how father died!"

"Why? He's dead. It won't bring him back to know how or why. This obsession of yours is growing quite unhealthy. Some things are best left unknown, dear brother. You must move on."

Sherlock's stomach boiled over with rage and he raised his hand to smack that equitable face black and blue, but Mycroft merely dodged, tutting at his younger brother. "Such childish actions, Sherlock. They won't bring father back, either."

"I don't care!", Sherlock heard himself scream in a child's voice. "How could you just tell me to put his death behind me as if it were nothing?!" And this time, full force, Sherlock tackled his elder brother, biting, kicking, and punching. Mycroft began shouting, but Sherlock could not hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. He was restrained and held at arms length, lifted into the air, having been nearly half his size and quite scrawny. "Let me go!"

"I'm sorry. This is for your own good, Sherlock." With that, the younger brother was tossed into the coffin and locked inside. "Mycroft?! Stop this! If this is your idea of a joke, you have a horrible sense of humour!" There was no response. "You're not serious!?" Still no response. "MYCROFT! Don't leave me in here! How could you do this to me?!" He could hear his own voice reflected back at him, muted. The coffin was menacingly hugging closer, tighter around him. "Mycroft! Mycroft, let me out this instant! What would mummy say?!" His heartbeat thumped and echoed in the silence.

"Mycroft?!" He yelled and clawed into the darkness for what felt like an hour, his hands biting and his fingers stinging, his voice shrinking to a hoarse whisper, choking out between hysterical breaths. Tears sated his father's eternal pillow and left his curls clinging to the sides of his face. "Mycroft", he whispered.

_'You won't mourn my death, either, will you? You'd just like me to disappear into the shadows with you and father.'  
_

He was dug out, but it was too late. Somehow, he was both alive and dead at the same time. He was lifted out by uncaring, unfeeling individuals, and the grown Sherlock looked him over while he was on a slab. "Hand me a scalpel, will you Molly?"_ 'No, I'm still here! I'm still conscious! But how is that even possible?'_ And then it dawned on him.

_'God, am I dreaming again?'  
_

Sherlock launched out of his sleep, sitting up in a cold sweat. "Perhaps sleeping on a slab was not the best of ideas after all. Such a silly thing, the connections an unconscious brain makes", he mumbled to himself, still gasping for breath. He lit himself a cigarette with shaking fingers. _'This dream reminds me of the time__ Mycroft told me I was "looking for conspiracies where none are present" and I socked him in the face. I couldn't take him then, and he just lifted me and locked me in my room.'  
_

With his spare hand, he wiped his wet face on his shirt._  
_

_'Father's funeral. I never saw the point of a coffin if there was no body, but I suppose since the British government was paying for it- wait, Mycroft shoved me into a coffin. What is that supposed to symbolize? Is he "burying me" by cutting me off financially? That's far too simplistic a viewpoint. Why then?'_ Sherlock tapped on his cigarette, glancing at it a tad ruefully, then cleared his throat and went to grab a cup of water.

Even after winding down again, exhausted, Sherlock found himself unable to sleep. _'It can't really be the operating table affecting me. Me? I mean, really. It's not that. Why then am I so on edge? I'm still tired! What time is it?'_

2:59AM

Ideas bounced around in his head like loud upstairs neighbours, keeping him from his needed rest.

_'I need to go back to Mycroft's to pick up fresh clothing. In the morning, I'll sneak into Mycroft's while he's at the Diogenes Club.' _Sadness crept into his stomach and settled there, digging a pit for itself to swirl in. _'__That feeling of being both dead and alive was familiar. _The "incident" [the one I will never live down]- _God knows why MDPV was legal. [__It was so obscure at the time.] Curiosity nearly killed you.- How should I have known?- And now it's going to kill you for real. Why would you touch cocaine? [Cocaine? It isn't chemically so different from my prescription] The prescription that you abuse, even after everything that's happened. It's illegal. Your productivity is worth more than that.- What am I supposed to do with the bag then?- You promised yourself you'd be more careful, that you'd never do it again. [I'm not doing "it" again-] Don't argue- [__I promised I'd never do-] __with yourself, it's counter productive- [MDPV again.] Well, if all of my thoughts weren't so rudely stumbling upon one another, I would not be arguing with myself! Until you all wait your turns, I'll bloody well argue with myself! Shut up thoughts! I'm trying to slee- You've got to be joking right? With the amount of stimulants you keep doing, you're lucky to have such mild insomn- [This is not mild, more like moderate to severe. I've barely slept.] Shouldn't have done cocaine. Should have slept in a cot at the police station- [no not there, then I'd get a bunch of idiots like Anderson and Donovan asking bloody questions I don't bloody know the answer to; "what, did you get into a fight with your mum?" "No", I'd crack, "I got into a fight with yours"- no no that's too pedestrian. I'd come up with something better than that. Something that might shut those two up for days-] no, probably wouldn't, but I can hope. I can pray. How much time has gone by?'  
_

He checked.

3:00AM

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

_Trying to display the epic quality of Sherlock's thought patterns, his processes, is like trying to describe every person walking by you in the depths of a crowded city. Without visuals, it's mighty hard. Writing from Sherlock's POV, I knew that was going to be one of the things I'd have to tackle. I apologize if it seems hard to read. I also apologize for my American spelling overlapping British-ish? colloquialisms. (It's jarring for me too.)_

_Next chapter, a new day dawns.  
_


	7. Return for the Violin

_Thanks are in order for those who have been supporting me and keeping up with my chapters. You give me drive!_

_**Edit:** British-ification! Minor grammar. Minor embellishments. Also decided to add something to make a certain police officer seem less dimwitted.  
_

* * *

Sherlock waited outside of Mycroft's early the following morning, stalking it strategically. If he weren't out of cigarettes he'd have opted to be chain smoking. He'd already consumed nearly two pots of cruddy Bart's coffee due to his insomnia.

Mycroft came lumbering out of his home, his personal security tagging along behind. His eyes appeared dull and his posture slouched, indicating perhaps a poor night's sleep, not that Sherlock particularly cared. The younger Holmes briskly made his way over to the entrance after the coast was clear. He slid his key in the lock, deftly opened the door, disarmed the alarm, then turned off the indoor security cameras. _'The key and codes still work.' _A small sigh escaped his lips.

Upon laying eyes once more at his former abode, he felt severely alienated, a stranger in a familiar place, _'no longer welcome'_.

The sound of Mycroft's footsteps interrupted Sherlock and he turned his head toward the noise, ready to snap. A dull, far away throbbing sound began as his mind swirled frantically, manic thoughts bubbling violently within his cooking pot mind.

_'__I'm coming for what's rightfully mine_! You can't stop me! I want you out of my house. I'm with an investigation. I don't care- You've wasted all of our time. Freak! Incompetent. I mistook you for someone competent- You are wasting your talents- You're a puppet! Look at the little Mycroft dance! They'll use you and throw you away. You have two minutes to prove Thatcher innocent. You're selfish. That's why mother won't take you in. How dare you bring mother into this. I'm afraid of what you'd do. _It scares me what you're capable of._ You're no longer welcome in my house. I'm taking what's mine! I am not coming back. You will never see me again. I do care about you. Stop playing at this 'consulting detective' nonsense! You could be a composer or a philosopher- I'm a great detective. How did you do that? I'm never going to be like you, or father for that matter! He's dead. Don't give up. We all fall off the wagon sometimes._ How dull this life is._ Are you unwell? _What happened last night? __This is absurd!_ _How low you sink, Sherlock! __Mycroft can't find out about this!_ ___If Lestrade were to find out about this-_ Do you want me to take you home? I no longer have a home. I'm sleeping in alleyways. _Curiosity nearly killed you.- The true nature of the British government- How should I have known?-_ MYCROFT! Don't leave me in here! How could you do this to me?!'

The throbbing had crescendoed into a ring that perforated Sherlock's eardrums. His heart threatened to choke him as he saw Mycroft standing there staring disapprovingly for a split second before his mind registered that his brother wasn't ever really there to begin with. His eyes squeezed shut and he turned back around, closing the door behind him and resting his back against it as he slipped off his shoes. "That wasn't real. It was paranoid expectation. _How lovely_", he sputtered, frowning in mixed aggravation.

With his head down, blinking to clear his eyes, he dashed across the cold spotless foyer and into the hall, up the stairs and past Mycroft's meticulously kept bedroom into his own. The bedroom was cluttered, papers piled about on a desk and littered carelessly upon the floor. Pickled body parts were displayed on a shelf and upon the dresser were several bits from disguises and costumes and a closed laptop. A framed picture of a younger him and family hung near the walk-in closet door. A humbly sized bed was shoved into one corner of it all, unmade but clean. Beside the bed his violin called to him from within the case.

_'Something's different. Brown bag with note. Mycroft's handwriting.'_

"Damn you Mycroft." Sherlock grudgingly walked toward the bag on the bed, his eyebrows sinking on his face, heart sinking into his stomach, his stomach weighted. He peered inside. "Cigarettes. You sly dog, Mycroft. You knew I couldn't refuse this kindness." He got himself a cigarette and lit as he glanced at the note.

'Dear Brother,

Please help yourself. Cake in the fridge.

Mycroft'

The younger brother cleared out a spot on his desk, pulled out his stash of cocaine, hidden within the empty cigarette box, then formed a few neat lines on his desk. He rolled up his brother's note and snorted it all before crumpling up his brothers words and throwing them aggressively into the trash bin. His eyes were led to the family portrait.

An insatiable urge to destroy everything he could see welled up from deep inside and Sherlock wailed on his family, cracking the glass and leaving the image swinging precariously. He punched again, harder this time, and the frame and glass shattered, falling to the floor, revealing a cracked wall behind it. He broke the remainder on his knee and threw it out his window, then picked up his grandfather's mirror and chucked it out as well, gleefully pausing to watch it crash into the garden below.

_'Better.'_ Sherlock glanced down at his right hand, which was growing stiff from pain. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the sill and he smiled viciously. He made to grab his desk chair in his growing exuberance when his mobile rang with Lestrade's tone. Sherlock awkwardly picked it up with his left hand and answered. "What?"

"Sherlock, I'd like to consult with you. Are you home?"

"Yes-", the amateur detective began. "Good. I'm at the door." Lestrade hung up and the doorbell rang. Sherlock's eyes widened and dashed to and fro before quickly gathering his necessaries in his arms and heading downstairs. _'He won't find out. Too dense. An idiot, just like everyone else. Wonder what simple mystery he requires my assistance with this time.' _The gain of numb, almost dissociative invincibility was a welcome exchange of feeling.

He dropped his violin, packed bag of clothes, and bag of goodies on the floor roughly and opened the door for Lestrade.

The inspector smiled politely. "I'm glad you're home. This case- what in God's name happened to your hand?!" Sherlock looked at his hand again as if he'd forgotten about it. "I hurt it", he dismissed.

"Sherlock. I'm not a bloody idiot. I can 'deduce' that much. I meant '_how'_?"

Holmes merely shrugged it off as he slid his feet into his shoes, his hand still dripping onto the previously immaculate floor. "I know what you meant." He could feel his heart raging against his ribcage, beating into his head. _'Lestrade knows- no he doesn't! That doesn't make sense. He doesn't know. Even if he knew-'_ Sherlock's darkened soulless eyes scanned Lestrade, who shifted uncomfortably at the sight.

_'No, he doesn't know. He can tell something's wrong, but I can still get away with this.'_

* * *

Lestrade looked away from Sherlock's piercing gaze and instead viewed the pile at the floor, at the violin case, the backpack, the bag of snacks and cigarettes. _'He plays violin? I never thought of him as much of a music lover.'_ Somehow, that made him seem more human. He tried to imagine long white fingers gliding across strings, chin balanced delicately over a perfectly tuned instrument, not dissimilar from himself, wielding the bow as an extension of his already long arm. _'How appropriate.'_

The D.I. looked back at his consulting detective with renewed courage. The man was practically hyperventilating. His whole body shook and his face flushed, sweat forming at the sides of his head. His hair seemed damp and even more dishevelled than usual, carelessly shoved out of his face and sticking to the side of his head. He was still wearing the same exact clothes from their encounter a few days ago, and now blood from his swelling hand stained them. His eyes were so dark. _'He looks so utterly bedraggled.'_ A lump formed at Lestrade's throat. He could tell something was horribly wrong here. _'Does this have something to do with that text argument he was having? Was it Mycroft? If these two brothers are fighting, then I'm caught in the middle here.'_

He didn't know how to bring it all up. He wasn't entirely sure it was worth attempting. _'Did he break his hand on purpose? Why would he do that? I don't know. It's Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was an accident, a petty one he's embarrassed to admit. Does Sherlock Holmes get embarrassed? He seems wired. Adrenaline? Has he been physically fighting? Is he sick? Did he trip because of fever? How much of this could have to do with that text argument?'_ He wanted to ask what was really going on, but realistically Sherlock was prickly at his most well behaved. "Can I see it?" He asked in his kindest, gentlest voice.

Sherlock didn't seem to be considering the idea but then, surprisingly, he lifted his right hand and gave it to Lestrade, who cradled the hand gently, scrutinising it. The bruising was faint, mostly reddish, yet from experience he could tell it was only a prequel of worse to come. The swelling was becoming ever more severe. He touched a finger to various parts of the hand and Sherlock hissed in pain. "It's broken. You should see a doctor."

"Can you take me to Bart's'?" Sherlock looked at him imploringly. Lestrade didn't think it would be so easy. This was too easy. Something was off. He felt like he was being used to some end. "To get your hand checked by a doctor?"

"Obviously", Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can you help with my things? Broken hand and all. Thanks." The D.I. followed behind, grabbing said things and heading out towards the car. Once they were driving, Lestrade felt he finally had a leg up. There was a chance he could confront the mad genius. "What's going on?"

Sherlock's eyes darted without seeing, jaw clenching, his body unable to stay still. His uninjured hand fidgeted unconsciously with the seat belt. "None of your concern. The case, Lestrade", he panted.

"But you're clearly injured. Did somebody hurt you?"

Sherlock snorted sardonically, then huffed, seemingly affronted. "You don't really believe that", he countered. "Is that a 'no'?" Lestrade glanced over momentarily before looking back at the road.

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer", Holmes protested.

_'He's hiding something. He's acting strange. How would I know if he's acting strange? He is strange. No, my instincts tell me something is very wrong here.'_ Lestrade cleared his throat. "I know-" he paused, searching for the right words. "I don't know you. Even though we've been corresponding for the better part of five years now, we're practically strangers. I won't pretend otherwise. But Sherlock, despite all that I know something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong", Sherlock enunciated carefully, as if speaking to a slow child.

If 'nothing is wrong', then why are you wearing day-before-yesterday's clothes? Why have you picked up smoking again? Hadn't you quit? I quit right before you! I remember. The patch thing, we sort of bonded over that. I do care what happens to you, as I'm sure you're aware of somewhere in that big head of yours. I want to help!"

Sherlock's face darkened. His left hand trembled as it wiped at sweat dripping down his cheek. His aura was foreboding. It was enough to frighten anybody with a reasonable sense of self preservation.

Lestrade knew he'd pushed too far. He opted to change the subject. "I didn't know you played violin. You any good?" The car was silent for a good minute before the other man replied. "It's just a hobby." He sighed shakily. "Helps me think."

"I'd love to hear you play sometime", the inspector suggested.

At a stop light, Lestrade checked on the hand again. "God Sherlock, your hand is bleeding all over the place. Here." He pulled out an emergency kit from the dash and thrust it onto him. Sherlock's right hand shook in agony as he attempted to use it to help open the box.

The D.I. let out a curse under his breath. "Right, let me get that", he offered, pulling the car over. He opened the box and wrapped up Sherlock's hand carefully. Gregory resisted lifting a hand to Sherlock's fevered brow, knowing full well the potential for disastrous consequences. _'The doctors will catch on to these symptoms right away. They'll be able to help him'_, Lestrade admonished inwardly.

"Tell me about the case, Lestrade. Or have you forgotten about the case in your attempts to 'fix' me?" Sherlock sputtered, his voice wavering uncharacteristically. Greg frowned, worry lines appearing on his face. Sherlock had no idea how badly he wanted to help. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock scoffed.

"Always wanting to save people. Lestrade, the dull witted man with a heart of gold. Grew up wanting to be a super hero, but instead became a London police officer. Doesn't expect a 'thank you' because justice is its own reward. His morals are second to none, and he'll even subject himself to the 'freak' genius and break the law if it means saving innocent lives."

"What are you doing Sherlock?", Lestrade scolded.

"Yet the world is just so unfair, isn't it? Your wife's leaving you."

"Sherlock!"

"You two met, whirlwind romance, fell head over heels for her, and she for you, but your dedication to work left her feeling cold, unwanted-"

"We're not doing this-"

"How was sleeping on the sofa Lestrade?"

"This is NOT about me! This is about you. You're acting-"

"What, like a 'psychopath'?"

"Like a complete jerk!", Lestrade ejaculated.

An unexpected laugh escaped Sherlock's lips as he rubbed at his tingling nose. Lestrade stared at him intensely, mightily aggravated. _'I don't know how he could possibly know all of that, nor why he thinks he has the right to say it!'_ "Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

Without warning, blood spurted from Sherlock's nostrils and he looked down at it in mild surprise. Lestrade's eyes nearly popped out of his face. He promptly forgot his anger as he fished through the first aid kit for something to help. "Pinch your nose and bend your head forward, down toward your knees", he commanded. Sherlock obeyed, still laughing behind his hand as the blood covered his face.

* * *

_Thanks for your patience. This chapter required a lot of rewrites to get correct, and I'm pretty certain I may make a few more edits before I'm fully satisfied with it. Lestrade is really fun to write. I love to see the dynamic between him and Sherlock. Remember to comment! Thanks for reading._


	8. Brush with the Law

_I had to do so much research for this chapter. Drug research, the court system, MDA, NHS and NTA mark just a few of the topics. Being American, again, I am making shots in the dark writing about the legal system in the UK. Hell if I know about all that! If you find disparaging facts and you'd like to correct me, again, please do._

_By the way, thanks to those who have reviewed/favourite/and followed MMM. I'm so happy people are taking well to the story!  
_

_**Edit:** Here we go. British English. Again. Seriously, Americans. Why is "eying" a viable spelling whereas "eyeing" is not? I never spelled it "eying". It looks wrong! I hated spelling it that way for this fic. Can't wait to alter it! Also, "ass handed to me"= what in British slang?  
_

* * *

When Lestrade lifted his gaze back to his increasingly unravelling colleague, tissue in hand, Sherlock's deep quiet laughter cut off and his eyes darted right back at Lestrade. While crouched he looked like a cunning carnivore backed into a corner, his poised bearing in stark contrast with his dishevelled appearance. Blood covered the lower portion of his face and now the hands that were holding his nose, blood from both wounds mingling.

An electronic sound erupted from Lestrade's cup holder and he snatched his mobile while Sherlock grabbed the tissue, eyeing him suspiciously. Holmes the younger saw the text. The number was blocked, but he was certain he knew who it was from.

'New Message:

Check coat pocket.'

He gurgled darkly "There never was a case was there, Lestrade?"

"Ah- well..." the D.I. stumbled.

"Mycroft put you up to this," Sherlock accused as if in disbelief. Lestrade swallowed and straightened, re-enforcing his presence. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I've got to check your coat."

The amateur detective could almost see the gears turning in the other man's head as he came to grips with what he might find. It was grossly maddening, yet he had little option at this point other than to obey Lestrade, who was after all, a police officer.

Greg, his mouth tightened, reached into the mad genius's pockets with faked confidence, pulling out a wallet, a small toolkit and a shut off mobile phone. "You've got more pockets than this, I'm assuming? Anything in here you'd like to warn me about? Like a weapon, _drugs_? Or body parts? Knowing you." Sherlock did not respond; he merely kept pinching his nose.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Which I apparently don't, know you that is." This earned a cold glance.

"Right. You know, this is nothing personal." He continued his search and pulled out a pill bottle, stopping to look it over. "Ritalin?" The D.I hummed thoughtfully.

"Yes. It's valid", Sherlock murmured, chagrin thinly veiled.

"Prescription does look good, except for one problem. Adults aren't prescribed Ritalin. Unless you have narcolepsy. You don't have narcolepsy, right?" Lestrade scrutinised the bottle with suspicion.

Sherlock shot a derisive look. "It's for ADD."

"ADD? You? I'm not surprised, actually. But you're an adult now-"

"As an adult, I've attempted life without it, but its artificial stimulation keeps me sane during periods of stagnation."

"Stagnation." Lestrade looked up as if in thought for a moment, then back at Sherlock. "You're not abusing, are you?" Sherlock's face became unreadable. Lestrade opened the bottle, pulled out a small clouded plastic bag and waved it in his blank face as if it might get him to talk. "What's this?"

"It's a small bag."

"You're abusing your prescription! How many of these pills are you on right now?" Sherlock shook his head. "I legally hold a prescription."

Lestrade sighed, attempting to keep up his professional face, but the bitter disappointment broke through in his voice. "Look, there's no point in denying it anymore. I caught you. Work with me and I might be able to help. Are you high right now?"

Sherlock swallowed, staring intensely at the dash. "Broken hand. In pain. Adrenaline is rushing through my-"

Lestrade got in Sherlock's face, exasperated. "Shut up! Just, shut up! You are high; you took too many of these pills! I may not be a genius like you, but I'm not a bleeding idiot!"

Sherlock sat up and his eyes scanned Lestrade's face, his own like a melting glacier dripping profusely in the heat of the sun. He spoke in contrast to Lestrade's frustration, monotone and firm. "Yes. I am 'high'." Lestrade bit back his attitude, taking a breath to calm himself. "Do you use any illegal substances?"

"I have."

"Do you have anything else on you?" Without waiting for an answer, Lestrade continued to poke through Sherlock's pockets. "I do." Finding a generous wad of cash, he looked at Sherlock disbelievingly. Holmes shook his head. Lestrade groaned at the sheer madness of it all. "Tell me you haven't put any drugs in a clever place. Please."

"'A clever place'? No. I have not hid drugs in any cavities, if that's what you're asking. If I had expected your perfidy, I would not have been caught."

"'Perfidy'?"

"Treachery, untrustwor-"

Lestrade snapped. "My 'perfidy', What about YOUR perfidy?! You're breaking the law, Sherlock! This is idiotic! You're probably the most gifted man I'd ever met and yet you're just going to throw it all away!" He finally lifted the cigarette box out of Sherlock's inner jacket pocket and looked inside. "This is-", Lestrade stumbled. Sherlock answered for him. "Cocaine." Lestrade looked from the cocaine to the wad of cash, completely distraught. "You're not-?"

"Really? Really! What need would I have to sell drugs? Come now, Lestrade. You're supposed to be a detective! Please stop wasting my time with foolish questions."

"Sherlock, this is ABSURD! It's not even worth explaining to you right now. I'm trying to give you some dignity here. We could do this the hard way."

Sherlock apologised brusquely and bit his lip.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Lestrade asked despairingly.

"My mind. The world slows down around me, but my mind is ceaseless, always craving more problems to solve, more to discover. Artificial stimulants fill in when the world cannot provide. I detest the dull routine of existence."

"There's got to be a better way to entertain yourself. You're risking your career, your life, for what? Not to be bored?"

"If you're concerned, you could always let me in on more of your cases."

"I can't let you in on ANY of my cases."

"Why not? I've not once been high for any of your consultations."

"You were high for this one."

"But as it turns out there was no case."

"There could have been! Now listen Sherlock, I've been breaking regulation for you. If I were to continue to let you in and anyone were to find out about", he gestured with his hands at Sherlock's trembling body "_this_, I'd get _fired_. Don't you understand that?!"

Sherlock could feel his heart throbbing so hard it dizzied him. This was a nightmare. With Mycroft's hand in things, he'd no longer have a connection with the Yard. Not a connection he'd like, anyway. His marred record would force him to come begging or change careers, probably both. He wiped at the blood on his face and returned to pinching his nose. "I understand."

"Then you know full well that I can't have you trolling my branch for cases anymore."

The amateur detective's face blanched. "You'll come back to me. You need me", he said with a hint of desperation.

"That may be true, but I certainly don't need your problems. It's like making a deal with the devil, working with you." Lestrade looked away, fiddling with the gears to pull out of park.

The younger Holmes felt his face twitch as his heart skipped a beat. "Yes. I have a problem."

"You have a multitude of problems."

"I have a few issues to work out but I'll go to rehab-"

"Not all of which can even be worked out by rehab. It's over, Sherlock. You're done. This thing we had is done."

"No, you're done. You can't just arrest me. What will everyone think?"

The D.I. scoffed. "Are you threatening me?"

"If I were threatening you, you wouldn't be asking."

Lestrade stopped the car again and glared. Sherlock glared back.

* * *

The consulting detective was roughly led to a holding cell and shoved inside, traces of blood left smeared on his fiercely intense face. He stood up straight and turned around, obstinately staring at his captors.

Lestrade came up from behind them, obviously fed up. "I'm taking lunch. Maybe by the time I get back you'll have started to see some sense." He threw his bloody hands in the air and left.

A doctor came and gave him an ice pack wrapped in a towel. He also pressed against various portions of the now fully blown up hand, then marked his suspicions on a notepad before treating the wound and wrapping it in gauze. "I'm recommending X-rays. Be careful with it." Sherlock was also forced to pee in a cup -in front of people-, among other embarrassing things.

After they were done with him, the room emptied. _'I was beginning to wonder when Mycroft would show. He wouldn't miss this for the world.' _Mycroft appeared as if by clockwork, a change of clothes and Sherlock's violin in hand. He placed a seat in front of the cage that divided them as his associate unlocked Sherlock's cell.

The two stared at each other, the air in the room growing uncomfortable. "As always, it's up to me to break the silence after a disagreement. Hello, Sherlock."

If looks could kill, no amount of security would have saved the elder Holmes. Mycroft sighed tiredly and placed the violin beside his seat, then threw Sherlock the change of clothes, and he caught it roughly then placed it beside him on the bench, never letting his brother leave his line of sight.

Mycroft was handed a piece of paper and looked it over, tutting. "Abusing your prescription? Cocaine intoxication? Intent to distribute? Is this like when you picked up smoking? Trying to get a rise out of me?"

Sherlock bristled. "My actions don't revolve around you Mycroft!"

"Of course not."

There was another silence.

"You weren't actually intending to distribute; that was money won in a bet", Mycroft said pointedly. Sherlock's eyes widened. "You've been watching me." His older brother shook his head and his mouth thinned. "No. It's some of what I've gathered thus far about your current situation. Wasn't hard to dig up."

"I heard from Lestrade that he won't let you work with him any more. That is unfortunate. You shouldn't have resisted arrest." Mycroft steepled his fingers.

"Don't act like you didn't play a hand in this!"

"I was concerned. Initially, I only wanted Lestrade to give you something constructive to occupy your time with, but I was informed of your recent poor choices and had to make a difficult decision. No doubt you're furious with me."

The younger Holmes felt his pulse quickening. He took up the violin, but unable to properly play, he merely held it in his lap and plucked at the strings with his trembling left hand. _'Furious doesn't begin to cover it.'_

Mycroft continued. "How long have you been doing this?" Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. I'm done with drugs."

"I would have thought you'd learned that lesson after testing substituted cathinones on yourself."

"Will I ever hear the end of it!", Sherlock proclaimed, vexed.

"I was worried I had lost you", Mycroft cut in, sincerity in his eyes and soft voice. Sherlock looked back down at his violin. "It nearly gave you heart failure. Even when that was over with, no one knew when your psychosis would end."

Sherlock plucked more violently as he felt warmth reach his cheeks.

"And I'm assuming you broke your hand while intoxicated with cocaine?"

The younger brother shifted in his seat on the bench, glaring down at his violin. "Why are you here?"

"Obviously to bring you some clothing and to... I want to- Would you like a cigarette?"

"Yes."

The two lit up and again stayed in relative silence. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft smirked mischievously. "You know, Mr. Jones is furious with you for destroying the rose garden."

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle and Mycroft joined in. They smiled contritely at one another, Sherlock softly fingering the strings. "So am I really arrested? Or were you planning on making this 'disappear'?" Holmes the elder raised a brow. "It depends. What are you going to do with yourself? You obviously can't keep on like this. Look at you. You need a place to stay."

"If it's between jail and living with you, I pick jail."

Mycroft chuckled affably. "No, I don't suppose continuing to live with me will be good for either of us."

"No, not very realistic. But I can't stay in jail either."

Mycroft paused thoughtfully. "Rehab may be a viable option."

"No, it's not."

"The police might be more apt to forgive your discrepancy."

Sherlock pouted. "Rehab was demeaning and tedious! There's got to be some other way, like an out-patient programme or something."

"Sherlock, you're not in any position to bargain. It's rehab or jail."

"My hand hurts", Sherlock winced as if that would make it seem more convincing. "Yes, I can see that", Mycroft sighed. "You've really done a number on yourself."

"I'd like to take a shower. And how am I supposed to get dressed without any privacy?"

"Welcome to the life of a prisoner."

"Very funny. You got me a T-shirt. A T-shirt? Come on." Mycroft sighed, beginning to lose patience. "You can't button a shirt with your hand like that!"

"Try me."

"All right, stop snivelling like a baby. I'll see what I can do. For now, wear the damned T-shirt. I'd like to remind you that you were the one who chose to get high and punch a wall."

Sherlock began to protest when a tired looking Lestrade came walking back inside. "Hey, there's no smoking in here."

Mycroft smiled. "Hello detective inspector. Would you care for a cigarette?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who shrugged and raised his brows. "What the hell. After a day like today, I think I deserve it."

* * *

_Oh Mycroft and Sherlock. As always, very fun and natural to write. Next chapter, I'll get to write Lestrade, Mycroft, and Sherlock in the same room! I'm both excited and frightened.  
_

_Thank you for reading up until this point, and I hope to see you next chapter. Let me know what you think so far!_


	9. Friends in High Places

_Wow, this next chapter was really easy. Too easy. Seriously. I keep wondering why it came so easily! (Probably because I've already done all of the hard work and research, and this time was just writing 3 beloved characters.) I mean, it also helps that a little while back I read an awesome fic called "In Confidence" by emma de los nardos, which influenced where I ultimately decided to go with my own prequel Sherlock. We had a few really similar perspectives and ideas. I wholeheartedly recommend it by the way! It's a great read!_

_To Morgan Pen: ;) I'm glad the chapter ended up flowing naturally. I chopped it to bits a few times!_

_To UsagiRyu: Yes, whatever they choose to do with Sherlock will surely be interesting! My portrayal of Lestrade is actually based off of a mix between listening to the commentaries on the first season, fanon lore, and canon little tidbits I've found._

_To Anon: Thank you for your thoughtful review! Yes, I believe months in a rehab facility may well make someone like Sherlock Holmes worse. I never specified how long he was in rehab, nor which rehab program he had participated in (or what extenuating circumstances there were). Rest assured, he did not spend months locked up bored somewhere._

_**Edit:** Final chapter that shall need translating into British English. Have been dabbling with slang. Tell me if I use it wrong.  
_

* * *

Lestrade pulled up a chair near the Holmes brothers and lit up the cigarette, taking a satisfying gasp of it before his gaze settled on the younger. He said nothing, then looked at the elder questioningly.

Mycroft smiled politely at Lestrade, who forced a smile back. Sherlock looked from one to the other of the two men who were to decide his fate.

_'Mycroft: had not slept well in several days, marks on his arms from his laptop (large project, viewing and commenting on things personally), recently went to the salon (also indicating some particularly stressful times, must have nice shiny nails during trying times), tie is a bit lop-sided (preoccupied),has been cheating on his diet (seriously, does he ever stick with any of his personal resolutions?), notices Lestrade's marital problems. He is attempting to be on his best game. Not sure which of us he's planning on benefiting._

_Lestrade: had washed up and changed his clothes, but not after lunch, before (must have bled on him), pastry crumbs, completely oblivious to Mycroft's scrutiny, actually uncharacteristically also oblivious to my own scrutiny, slept on the sofa (poorly), cut own hair (and no one told him he did a bad job of it), not wearing wedding ring (wife most definitely divorcing him and no longer cares about his state), had __a strong drink__, two strong drinks with lunch as well (alcoholic much?), rough divorce. Is in a difficult mood.'_

Sherlock hid a discomfited sneer after gauging his prospects rather poor.

The D.I. began. "You're in a lot of trouble", he spoke sharply as he frowned at Sherlock. The amateur detective bit back a sarcastic comment and instead opted for cordiality, nodding with as much respect as he could muster. Lestrade seemed to relax ever so slightly. "Cocaine intoxication, intent to distribute a Class A, prescription misuse of a Class B, and resisting arrest. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock made to steeple his fingers but thought the better of it, holding his injured hand over the violin on his lap as he leaned in closer to Lestrade. '_What __**do**__ I have to say? "I'm sorry Lestrade. I didn't mean to get caught and ruin my career. I didn't mean to be such a cocksure idiot. As you can see from the relation, I was just born that way." No. I have nothing to say. What could I possibly say to rectify this?'_

"I have nothing." The younger Holmes looked away.

Lestrade's jaw twinged. "Nothing?! You'd better have an answer for this!"

Sherlock looked away and twitched a brow. "I do have an 'answer'."

"You always have an answer", Lestrade spat. "This had better be good."

"I always have a 'good answer'", Sherlock replied assuredly, still feigning interest in the corner of the room, "but I don't have an excuse. I have nothing to say in my own defence. I do however, apologise. I should not have behaved so shamefully. I'm sorry." Greg frowned. "Tell me what happened."

Sherlock closed his eyes as if bored and rested his head against the cell wall.

The D.I. and Mycroft looked on expectantly.

"Several years ago, when I had my first breakthrough case as an undergrad, it was then I had decided to become a consulting detective. Prior to that, I was aimless, only really trying to avoid being in government, but not knowing what to do with myself. I was interested in chemical research from an early age, had always tested chemicals on myself and others. I figure I would have eventually become a chemist had fate not intervened."

Lestrade watched patiently, but confused. "Okay, so you dabbled a lot in Chemistry."

"As a child, I was diagnosed with ADD inattentive type, as I explained-" Mycroft interrupted. "He was a most disruptive child, as you can imagine. A bit of a terror, really." Sherlock glared. Greg bit back a smirk. "Oh, really?"

"Oh yes. One Christmas dinner, he dr-" Sherlock sprang out of his seat and pointed his violin as if it were a weapon. "So help me Mycroft, one more word."

"Or what? You'll attack?"

"No no. I was more thinking I'd bring up that summer in Berlin."

"A low blow." Mycroft pouted, leaning back in his chair. "Oh just continue your story."

Sherlock sat back down, stroking his violin with his uninjured hand. Lestrade sighed in disappointment. "Yes, on with it."

"And I was prescribed Ritalin. Needless to say I found other uses for it. Made much more sense to take in bursts." Mycroft frowned. "When did you start doing that?" Sherlock smiled triumphantly at his brother's lack of knowledge and this caused Mycroft to express scorn. "A long time ago. A little after I started smoking, actually."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Is there a point to this story?"

"Of course, inspector. My point is that I started early, long before I had begun to focus all of my passion into crime work. I suppose you could say I'm a bit", he paused, "_reliant_ on it at times. And I continued after I begun my career during slow periods. As of this day, I still do not know what to do with myself when I am without work. That's why I turn to stimulants. Before this last one, it had been months since I'd had a good case. I had been doing a stored up supply three times per day."

Mycroft nodded almost imperceptibly. "When did the cocaine start?" Sherlock twitched his mouth, eyebrows furrowed. "Right after my last case. At a party."

"Wait, a party?" Lestrade huffed in disbelief. "You? A party guest?" Sherlock plucked at his violin and held his nose in the air, prideful. "Of course."

The D.I. still seemed sceptical. "So let me get this straight, some people at this party were snorting cocaine just the other night and you idly thought 'hey, why not'?"

The younger Holmes smiled. "Pretty much. Its chemical composition is similar to my prescription, and I was curious as to the differences in effect. What better way than to experience it first hand?"

"Oh, I don't know. Not experiencing it?" Lestrade cut in snidely.

Sherlock's smile hinted at annoyance. Mycroft clasped his hands together. "There's something more to this. How did you end up with all of that cocaine?"

"Well, he bought it didn't he?" Lestrade presumed. "Of course not", Sherlock blurted. "I actually don't remember how it got in my jacket", he admitted with consternation. Mycroft inhaled, realising the truth. "He'd become inebriated."

Lestrade, caught off guard, burst into laughter. "Sherlock? Got drunk? Sherlock, at a party, went on a bender, so much so he doesn't remember what happened? Am I supposed to believe this?"

Sherlock looked away and spoke in an uncharacteristically humble tone of voice. "I thought myself clever enough to win at a drinking game, yet I didn't account for my condition when I began drinking because I was high."

"You hadn't eaten or slept in days at that point, is what you're referring to when you say 'condition'", Mycroft interjected (more for Lestrade's sake). The D.I.'s disbelieving humour faded into pure disbelief, his eyes wide. "Days?"

"Yes. When I came down from a new, more powerful drug than I was used to, I'm assuming my body could no longer sustain consciousness and I blacked out. I awoke in an alley with the bag of cocaine in my jacket pocket. I meant to get rid of it, but boredom, exhaustion and a personal weakness for stimulants overtook my good judgement."

"I believe you, Sherlock." Lestrade gave a reassuring smile through his frown. "You should have come to me." Sherlock finally looked back at Lestrade, mournful. "I wish I had. But I did the next best thing. I got caught." Mycroft let out a weary sigh. "So now the question is, what do we do about this? These were obviously events for which Sherlock is quite regretful of."

Lestrade sprung from his seat. "It's not like he's a child! He knew full well what he was doing. I'm not just going to let him go!"

"Yet, under the circumstances-"

"What 'circumstances'? He's an addict! That's nothing new. Well, for me it's a bit unusual. It's not exactly my division, but for you Sherlock Holmes, I've made an exception."

Sherlock lifted a brow at Lestrade and murmured at his violin, "you should really only limit it to one drink with lunch."

"What was that?" Lestrade nearly tripped over himself at what he thought he'd heard.

"That!" Mycroft stood up. "That, and there's some personal family related circumstances that he cannot bring himself to talk about." Lestrade frowned at Sherlock, who was plucking softly at his violin. Out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, he could tell Lestrade was about to break.

The D.I. groaned. "Sherlock has saved innocent lives. He's helped me without asking for credit or payment many times. For this reason, I am giving him only one chance. And it's under my terms."

Sherlock glanced up from what he was doing. "What are the terms?"

"I'll drop all but medication abuse. No jail time. Just a fine. I want you evaluated for rehab and to successfully complete whatever is given to you."

"No. I can't do-" Mycroft put a hand up and cut his brother off, eyeing him dangerously. "I'll personally ensure that he does so." Sherlock tiredly pouted.

Lestrade walked into Sherlock's cell and leaned into his personal space. "And just so that we're clear, this is a one-off deal. I can and will bust you to the fullest extent of the law if you ever pull anything like this again. Understand?" Sherlock yawned and nodded in response. "That's from being tired, not a response to you. I promise, you will never have to deal with me being intoxicated again. Understood. Thank you." Lestrade rolled his eyes, straightening.

"Get out of here. Get that hand checked out. And don't _ever_ let me regret this."

* * *

_Stay tuned for next chapter, and as always, review please and thank you!_


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